A History of Violence
by SilentBobina
Summary: A/U: After Ian dumps Mickey, he goes home to face his pain. How can he move on when his entire past is defined by that red-haired prick? He ruminates on their childhood on Wallace Street and their tumultuous relationship but will he be able to move on? TW: Abuse, Rape, Incest (Expansions on canon, A/U future, and childhood flashbacks; all Mickey's POV)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Fuck Sammi and the prison storyline. This story continues after the break-up based on the assumption that Mickey went home and dealt instead. It's gonna have flashbacks as well... some from childhood and some from his relationship with Ian. It's gonna be fragmented, dark, and angsty. Probably TW: Abuse, Rape, and Incest eventually.

"You gonna marry me? We gonna go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple old queens?" Ian snapped, his breath steaming hot against the cold air.

The words smacked Mickey across the face. He hadn't considered the implications of his clumsy vows; he'd been so focused on holding back the tears he felt welling up in his eyes. _He doesn't mean it, he'll take it back_ , he assured himself as Ian narrowed his eyes sharply. The cold chafed Mickey's lungs and he let out a half-sob to ease the itch. "This is it. This is you breaking up with me." He said hoarsely hanging desperately on the hope that Ian was just having a moment, some more of his crazy shit. _I would marry you_.

"Yeah," Ian responded half-heartedly, unable to look Mickey in the eye.

Later that night, Mickey drank a fifth of whiskey in the upstairs nook at the Alibi. He couldn't bear to go home and cry. He couldn't bear the emptiness of his house and the pieces of Ian scattered across the floor; an unsurprising mess left in his wake. "Get the fuck out," Mickey snapped at the milk maids camped out in the shit hole of an apartment. He sat in one of the ratty chairs and the smell of stale milk filled the air around him. He let himself sink into the chair and slugged back a gulp of the cheap shit. He clenched his eyes shut in the hopes that he could hold back the glutting tears filling his throat with bile. He squeezed them so tight that he barely noticed the hot sting of the first tear as it trickled down his cheek.

Mickey couldn't remember the last time he had cried so hard. Every other time Ian went running off like the unpredictable bastard that he was Mickey would fuck out the pain but this was different. He curled his legs up underneath him and swiped angrily at his hot, red cheeks with a sniffle. _I would marry you_. The thought came back to him and he reconsidered the afternoon with a choked sob.

He had been half-awake when the call came, his eyes glued eagerly to the impossibly dark screen. He had dozed on and off all night and day for weeks watching the fucking thing. He would remember the dead look in Ian's eyes as he lay like a slug in his own bed and Mickey would shake himself awake wondering if this bipolar thing was contagious.

He could still feel it all, tingling in his chest beneath his cracking ribs; the way his heart leaped into his chest at the tiny sound, so small he thought for a second he'd imagined it, echoing through his apartment. He could feel the rush of the cold so refreshing and uplifting as he flew down the street looking for Ian's bright flash of red hair bobbing to meet him like some gay ass chick flick. He remembered how quickly his stomach dropped, like coming down, as Ian's eyes looked away quickly. Fuck.

Speaking of coming down… Mickey guzzled some more whiskey until his throat stung viciously. He coughed roughly and didn't notice the door opening. When he looked up again, he noticed Svetlana and rolled his eyes in irritation. He couldn't let her see him like this; it was hard enough to get that bitch off his back. "Where V?" She asked thickly.

"Downstairs, fuck off," Mickey snapped back without a second thought. He could smell the heady alcohol rolling from his mouth, dark and pungent like his dad's breath. He licked his lips self-consciously and turned down his eyes in shame and disgust with himself, Svetlana, Ian, life.

Mickey let his eyes slide closed and waited for the door to click but the sound didn't come. "I hear about orange boy." Svetlana spoke again with a twinge of curiosity and concern.

Mickey's eyes snapped up and pinned her harshly. "The fuck about Ian?" He growled in response. _Ian, use his name_ , he thought angrily. Svetlana had gone back to the disparaging nickname ever since things went wrong with Yevgeny. He sighed deeply, a hard pit filling his stomach as he realized grudgingly that Svetlana was all he had now; Mandy had left with that abusive fuck-off, he couldn't rely on the Gallaghers now and even Kev would tire of his liquor skimping soon. Sure, he had his fucktard cousins but they could barely follow orders let alone comprehend his heavy emotions. His eyes softened as he looked over Svetlana again. "Look, I don't wanna talk about it just…" He trailed off waving a hand.

Svetlana nodded and walked towards him, sitting on the arm of the chair. She reached for the whiskey and he let her share the bottle. He bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could, until he tasted metal instead of heavy alcohol. He glared down at the chair and noticed the fraying edges of the upholstery. He plucked at it nervously. Svetlana put the bottle back down on his lap and he clutched it against himself like an alcoholic and not a heartbroken fag. He nodded slightly in thanks but even that small gesture made his head swim. "You want I perform wifely duties?" Svetlana asked sincerely.

Mickey looked up at her in confusion. Her head was tilted to the side expectantly and her soft brown eyes pleaded with him silently. "Wh-no huh?" Mickey shook his head. He thought back again to all those times that Ian hadn't been around. Just a week ago he would've taken anything he could get including his whore wife; anything to distract him. Now though, his limbs felt so heavy and his breathing so slow from the alcohol that he doubted he could get hard anyway.

Svetlana frowned and ran a hand down his arm gently. He flinched at the touch and smacked her hand away. "I try to help!" She insisted loudly.

Mickey's ears blurred like he was under water. "There's nothing you can do," He mumbled miserably. He shifted impatiently and straightened his back when he heard the patheticness of his own whiny voice. Svetlana turned around to go mumbling something in Russian. Mickey sniffled once and cleared his throat. "Wait!" He protested. He tried to hold himself up but he sunk back deeply into the cheap chair. "Yeah, give it a shot," he agreed casually, as if the decision didn't make his stomach turn in disgust.

Svetlana stood for a moment with her back to him. When she finally turned around, her eyes were somber and dark. He closed his eyes to keep her darkness from poisoning him, he was already dark enough. He felt her unhook his pants and fish his soft cock from between his legs. He tried not to focus on the ache of his head and his chest as he felt her hot breath close to him. He licked his lips and did what he always did; he imagined a sharp flash of red hair rushing across his hip and coy brown eyes smiling up at him to gauge his every reaction. Nothing was happening; nothing happened, he fretted. He bit the already ragged inside of his cheek and imagined the stinging bruises that Ian would leave on the soft flesh of his thigh. After a long moment of Svetlana's mouth and fingers working him with admitted skill, Mickey let out a groan. It wasn't a groan of pleasure but frustration. He flung out his arms and pushed Svetlana violently away by the shoulder.

She slid back onto the floor, rubbing her neck from the rough lash. She glared at him and sighed. "Call if you want see your son," she hissed, another jab at one of their continuous arguments. Even Yevgeny made Mickey think of Ian, the bright smiles that lit up his freckled face as he threw the baby in the air and kissed him lightly.

Mickey clenched his eyes and teeth closed. "Whiskey dick," he grumbled, tears welling up in his eyes again as the cold stung his exposed dick. He hissed and shoved it back into his pants. A few tears gathered on his cheeks. "Fuck OFF!" He shouted angrily and he finally heard the satisfying slam of the door.

Mickey took another long tug off the open whiskey and let his eyes lilt closed. He felt himself drifting off into the ache that vibrated through every inch of him. It pulled him inevitably back to that afternoon, to the moment when his chest cracked open like a cloudless sky.

He could see it all so clearly, the bright Chicago sky warming his skin as the cold filled his gasping lungs and Ian, Ian was going off so quickly. Mickey could barely keep up as he snapped and quibbled and insulted himself. He felt his mouth hang open in surprise.

"I hate the meds. You gonna make me take 'em?" _an accusation._ Of course not, the words he should've said.

"You gonna wanna be with me even if I don't?" _Don't push me away. I will always stay_ , he shouted in his head. _I have no one else. I don't NEED anyone else! I visited you in the hospital and you barely looked at me. I visited you in jail and didn't blink, why the_ Fuck _would I leave now?_ His thoughts raced but his mouth simply hung there and a black cloud of nothing spewed out to cover the blue sky. He hadn't even caught his breath and this blackness was choking him.

"You can't fix me." _I love you._ "Because I'm not broken. I don't need to be fixed" _You're perfect! I can handle it. I can handle it_ , he reassured himself but now even Ian was lost in the haze of the black.

 _Will you marry me?_ He whispered in his mind before he started awake suddenly. "Fuck," he muttered with a gasp. The light was diffuse in the shitty little room but it burned straight through him. He felt his stomach turn violently as the stench of the sour room and the thick smell of whiskey assaulted his lips. He tried to swallow the bile but it ended up in a pile on the floor. _Kev's gonna kill me_ , was all he could think as he wiped at his mouth with his hoodie sleeve. He rubbed his eyes roughly with the balls of his palm and let out a groan.

The dream pounded through his brain right along with the blinding sunlight. He hadn't spoken up; he hadn't kept up. Ian's thoughts were so fast and he had barely even caught his breath. It was a metaphor for the last few months of their relationship but Mickey was certain he had proven himself. "I should've fucking said something," he grumbled out loud.

He reached for a nearby towel covered in breast milk and spit up and fell to his knees to mop up the vomit. Instead, his knees landed in the gunk and he felt an irrational spike of anger in his chest. "Fuck!" he cursed as his hand slid into the pile. He looked over to the chair, no glared at the chair, and gave it a quick punch. The pain that shot through his hand made him smile and he pounded it again, harder. His knuckles scraped open against the fabric and he let out a gleeful giggle. He began to pound against the back of the armchair wildly, his strong flailing limbs vibrating with the strain. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth losing himself in the rhythm.

Mickey stopped to catch his breath and the sharp, cold air brought him back to reality, to the image of black spewing from his mouth and the stench of vomit on the floor. His eyes fluttered open and his eyes widened in surprise. He began to shake lightly as he eyed the blood-smeared chair, he had busted open the meager stuffing and it jutted out unevenly. "Me too," he said meekly before sinking against the chair and sobbing into his bloodied hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Looking back, Ian had always been around as long as Mickey could remember; that dorky little wide-eyed red-head down the street. Summers burned hot with blurry asphalt and patches of rough brown grass on the South Side lawns. Mickey remembered the summer that he turned 8 vividly as the one when his father first lost his job at the factory, began to take and sell too much coke, and his mother started to cry quietly whenever she was alone in the kitchen and thought no one was listening.

All the kids gathered in the street, sharing the few toys they had, but mostly, imagining themselves in other worlds using only their scrawny, underfed bodies. The Gallaghers and the Milkovichs in particular had an ongoing war; war in the sense of finger-shaped guns, kidnapping tied with ratty jump ropes, and wrestling bodies to the ground as they snuck around corners. Ian became the Milkovich's first hostage in that difficult summer. It was an important moment in their history and yet, Mickey had never mentioned it to Ian again and he wasn't sure the boy even remembered.

Mickey and his cousins huddled behind the corner of their house discussing their brilliant plan. "Alright, you get the babies and I'll get the redhead." Mickey directed them confidently, always the leader.

Iggy shook his head. "What about the other one?" He meant Lip.

Mickey scoffed and shook his head. "Once he's alone we'll jump him a lot easier numb nuts," He chided, already aware that they couldn't quite keep up with him. His cousins nodded in earnest, certain that he was right.

Debbie and Carl were easy targets, sitting in a wagon on the sidewalk and playing with a bouncy ball, all toddler giggles and innocence. Still, Ian guarded them closely and Lip was nowhere to be seen; strategy Mickey was sure. He walked up to Ian inconspicuously, innocuously and waved. "Hey Gallaher," he mumbled, both hands tucked in his pockets.

The red-head gave him a suspicious glare that didn't quite fit his pudgy cherubic face. Mickey had to hold back a laugh. "Milkovich," was all he said in response. Ian had always played the tough guy, an act that amused Mickey to no end since he was so… cute. There really was no other word for it even though he had never told Ian that he thought so, just another in a long list of regrets.

Mickey pulled something out of his pocket and for a second Ian's eyes widened in fear. Mickey smirked confidently and moved in closer to the red-head. He brushed up against him and opened his clenched palm. "Hey, look what I got," he announced in a whisper. Ian leaned away and captured Mickey's eyes, a red spark of curiosity burning behind the brown, a look that would give Mickey the good kind of stomach ache as they got older. "Cherry bomb," he explained conspiratorially. The little red knot of explosives sat sacred in his hand and Ian leaned back in eagerly. Mickey grabbed the boy's arm and pulled him away from the sidewalk.

"I—I can't I'm watching—" Ian started like the goodie-goodie he was deep down, before all his crazy shit.

Mickey rolled his eyes and gave Ian a serious look. "Come on don't be pussy," he said. Maybe that was the moment he realized that Ian was different somehow but it didn't bother him. He just pulled the boy more tightly to his side and led him around the corner of the Gallagher home.

Ian set his face in a determined nod and followed without even a glance back at his siblings. Mickey heard the not so subtle clunk of wagon wheels and smiled widely to himself. "What?" Ian asked with an innocent tone and wide-eyes.

"Nothing, this is just gonna be sick," he said with a grin. Ian's eyes widened and he nodded in hesitant agreement. Mickey pulled out the lighter he'd nicked from his dad's chair and held out the bomb reverently. "Ready?" He asked and the awe on Ian's face filled him with something sweet and he forgot all about the distraction, the plan, and the game for a brief second. Ian had already made the world fall away and this was their first secret. His snaggly smile (he'd lost at least 2 of his front teeth that summer; somehow that stood out to him) lit up with the spark and he threw the small bomb roughly in the direction of his neighbor's yard. It let off a terrible crack and a cat screeched. Ian and Mickey stared at each other in fear and Mickey grabbed Ian's hand as he stood frozen. "Shit," he muttered. "Run!" He shouted, tugging on the redhead's small hand.

It was one of the last times that Ian was smaller than him. Mickey had stopped growing early, a short stocky kid from the start. Ian stayed so small for so long before he shot up into the tightly muscled, broad shouldered man that Mickey loved. As Mickey tackled him to the ground playfully, he let out a yelp. They laughed for a while. "You think Ms. Phillip's cat's alright?" Ian asked as their breathing calmed. Mickey felt a spike of terror. If he'd killed that cat, he was in for a beating.

"Fuck," he murmured, still thrilled by the sound of the forbidden word that would come to comprise a large majority of his vocabulary.

Ian stared at the fence like a dragon lived tucked away in the garden. He stood and walked semi-casually towards the sidewalk. Mickey followed him when he heard the boy let out a scream. Oh shit. He had almost forgotten about the game! Phase one was complete and the little red wagon was nowhere to be seen. "Where could they be?" he panicked and chattered running up to Mickey who held back a domineering smile.

"Surprise," he said with a sneer. Ian's eyes flashed in confusion as Mickey deftly pinned him to the ground. He let out a triumphant laugh and wrestled the boy into a headlock, dragging him towards their house. Ian's eyes bulged from his head and he pressed his feet desperately against the ground trying to find the traction to push Mickey off him but he was just a few inches too tall. Mickey smiled maniacally as Ian gave in and let Mickey drag him into the cramped living room filled with kids.

Mickey found Debbie and Carl in the dog pen left over from the pit bull that his dad had shot in a drunken rage one night. He could still remember the pathetic yelp and sometimes he heard it in his dreams even now. His cousins gave him satisfied grins and helped him secure Ian to the chair, tying up his arms loosely in jump ropes that he could've slipped at any time. But this was just a game and they were just kids and the memory played wistfully in Mickey's chest. "We do good Mickey?" Iggy asked eagerly and he just nodded.

"Alright," he said. Ian's face had gone hard, just like it always did when his temper was building. "Now, do you think you two can handle Lip alone?" He asked seriously, his eye-brows raised somberly. Just one more Gallagher and the first battle of the summer would easily be theirs.

Iggy frowned. "Mickey why don't you do it? You're the big boy," he squeaked, suddenly nervous; spineless since the beginning.

Mickey raised his voice authoritatively and crossed his arms. "It's my plan!" He protested. Iggy's face lightened and he nodded in agreement. "Now go steal a beer for me before you," he paused dramatically, "take care of that Gallagher." Iggy groaned but did as he was told. Ian threw Mickey a glare; Mickey the bully, even to the people on his side. Iggy returned with the beer and he and the other cousins headed outside, none too subtly in a mess of screeches and laughs. Mickey let out an irritated sigh at their hopelessness. He popped open the beer and collapsed on the couch watching Ian closely.

"Why you gotta push them around too?" Ian asked after a long moment. Mickey barely noticed his lips moving as his face stayed frozen in that sullen, dead glare.

Mickey rolled his eyes and shrugged. "They're dumbasses. Besides, I'm the oldest, it's my job," He responded simply.

"Lip doesn't do that—" Ian began to protest.

"Yeah well Lip is a chicken," Mickey snapped back and took a swig of the bitter, cheap beer. He tried to hold back the disgust he felt at the heavy, flat taste, to keep his attitude hard like an army leader was supposed to.

Ian sighed and his face turned from hot-blooded anger to exasperation. Mickey would become intimately familiar with this gesture, a gesture that said I'm disappointed but I really couldn't expect more of you anyway. The thought that he had already cemented that trashy hood rat image in the head of 7 year old Ian twisted his chest in pain. "I hate this game. It's so boring," he began to whine.

Mickey wasn't sure if it was a distraction technique or just Ian being a sore loser. He sat up and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his legs which were slung lazily over the arm of the beat-up couch. "Yeah losing's a bitch," he teased with another sneer.

Ian rolled his eyes and looked away. After a long moment filled only with wordless chatter from the babies, Ian's eyes flickered closed lightly and Mickey groaned. He was getting bored too and he almost regretted his decision to send out his cousins instead of handling Lip himself. He hopped off the couch and poked Ian in the shoulder. "Hey. You really that bored?" He asked with a shared look of misery. Ian's eyes opened lazily and he tilted his head to the side out of curiosity. "We can play another game," he offered, suddenly remembering the game that Mr. Deakins had taught him to play with his sister one afternoon in his basement.

Ian's eyes lit up and he nodded with excitement. Looking back, a few things occurred to Mickey; Mr Deakins was a fucking pervert, he wished that he had understood what he was about to do, and without this incident he might never have ended up with Ian after all. The last realization made his breathing shallow and he tried to focus on the good parts that came in between that moment with Ian tied to the chair and the gut-wrenching heartbreak he felt now. On that summer afternoon, before Mickey even understood sex as anything beyond the glimpses of porn that he caught his dad watching late at night in the dark living room, Mickey Milkovich leaned forward and kissed Ian Gallagher softly on the lips. Just a short peck.

When he pulled back with an expectant look on his face (it was supposed to feel good or some shit, and looking back Mickey had felt… something unexplained pass between them), Ian sat there with his eyes frozen open in horror. Apparently Mickey wasn't playing right, or so he thought until he heard the booming voice of his father behind him. "Mickey!" He shouted. "What the FUCK are you doing? Who are these fucking shit kids?" The shout pierced right through him and although Mickey understood exactly what set Terry off now, all he'd felt in that moment was blind terror and confusion.

Ian had enough sense to break quickly from his ties and grab Carl and Debbie in one swift motion. Something told Mickey he'd made similar escapes in the past. He stared after the redhead wishing desperately that he could follow as his father lifted him easily by one arm and smacked him roughly across the face. Tears slid down Mickey's cheeks as his father landed a few more blows on him. "Dad! Dad!" He squealed helplessly as he wriggled against his grip. "We were just playing, just war with the Gallaghers," he shouted but he might as well have been a limp puppet in Terry's blind rage.

Mickey's stomach turned as he came back to the reality of the present. He could sit in this shitty little rat hole of an apartment drowning in his own vomit and regrets forever. No one would notice but he decided to at least clean up before he started on his next bender. As he worked over the apartment, properly mopping up the bile, thoughts of Ian refused to budge, like an itch he couldn't scratch.


End file.
